


(stay close to me while) the sky is falling

by trustingno1



Series: Season/Series 3 Alternate and Missing Scenes [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-21 00:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1530536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Is everyone I've ever loved a psychopath?" he asks, tightly.</p><p>"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson says, before she can catch herself, and bloody <i>hell</i>.</p><p>"<i>Met</i>," he amends, too late, and he can feel Sherlock's gaze on the back of his neck. "Everyone I've ever <i>met</i>."</p><p>(re-working of a 3x03 scene).</p>
            </blockquote>





	(stay close to me while) the sky is falling

**Author's Note:**

> A re-imagining of the Baker Street scene in 3x03; because John's canonically met a lot of people who aren't psycho- (or socio-) paths. 
> 
> A few lines are lifted directly from the episode, but, hopefully, it should be different enough. (Most noticeably in the sense that if I was on the run/using an assumed identity/at the risk of being blackmailed, I _probably_ wouldn't be carrying around a USB, helpfully labelled with my real initials, that contained everything about me).

" _What_ is going on?" Mrs. Hudson demands, as they file, silently, into 221B's living area.  
  
" _Bloody_ good question," John mutters.  
  
"The Watsons are about to have a domestic - and fairly quickly, I hope - because we've got work to do," Sherlock supplies, from the doorway.  
  
John ignores him. The work can wait. "No, I have a better question," he says, turning to face his - his wife. _Jesus_. "Is everyone I've ever loved a psychopath?" he asks, tightly.  
  
"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson says, before she can catch herself, and bloody _hell_.  
  
" _Met_ ," he amends, too late, and he can feel Sherlock's gaze on the back of his neck. "Everyone I've ever _met_."  
  
Mary's studying him too, thoughtful but not _surprised_ , and she knows almost everything worth knowing about him, and he doesn't even know her fucking _name_ -  
  
"Yes," Sherlock says, after a beat, and Mary nods her agreement, and, oh, isn't that _hilarious_. "Now that we've got that out of the way-"  
  
" _Shut up, Sherlock_ ," he barks, without turning around, and Sherlock falls silent. "I'm going to need someone to start explaining things pretty quickly," John says, quiet and even, and Mrs. Hudson flutters her hands and disappears back out through the kitchen. Probably best she's not around for this.  
  
"How much do you know?" Mary asks, but she's looking at Sherlock. Of course.  
  
"Mmnn," Sherlock thinks for a moment, "You are - or were - an intelligence agent."  
  
"Obvious," Mary allows.  
  
"Not to me, it wasn't," John says, tightly, and Mary's gaze drops to the floor for a moment.  
  
"Your accent is currently English, but I suspect you are not," Sherlock says, moving around to take his seat. "You're on the run from something-"  
  
"Then getting married was a bit stupid," John says, taking his seat, too (following Sherlock; always following Sherlock), and Mary flinches, just minutely and maybe it _is_ cruel, but. "Bit hard to be on the run with a husband and-" he breaks off, chest tightening  
  
(and Christ, the night of the wedding; he'd been so focused on not seeing, not understanding, Sherlock's wistful expression, he hadn't even thought about what _Mary's_ had meant).  
  
"Oh, God," he says, dropping his chin to his chest for a moment.  
  
"Perhaps we could table this part of the discussion for now," Sherlock suggests, nodding at Mary to pull up one of the desk chairs, "We are a bit pressed for time.  
  
" _Shut up_ ," John snaps again, and Sherlock presses his lips together. "The baby," he says, turning to Mary. "What-"  
  
"It wasn't part of the plan," she allows, in this new, level voice he's still getting used to, "but John -" her fingers twitch, like she wants to reach for him (like she did during the very first scan, fingers twining with his, tears in her eyes, and _stupid_ , he's been so _stupid_ ). "I _do_ want it."  
  
"Yeah?" John asks, lightly, and Sherlock winces, like he knows the tone of voice, "And what if you'd been caught _killing Magnussen_?"  
  
"I never get caught," she says, evenly.  
  
" _I_ caught you." Bloody Sherlock. Can't help himself.  
  
"If you'd gone to prison for that," John says, ignoring them both, "What then?" Mary glances away. "Or if you needed to run again. Me and the kid coming too? Or," he settles his elbows on his thighs and leans forward, mock casual, "what if someone else figured out who - _what_ \- you are? That'd be the _perfect_ piece of leverage, a kid." He sucks in a breath, swallows down some of the rage burning his throat. "The _danger_ you're putting our _child_ in-"  
  
"No-one will ever hurt this child," Mary says, and it's soft but _steely_ and John shakes his head.  
  
"You can't promise that." He stares at her, and she's even _sitting_ differently. The woman he married tucks her toes under his thigh when she's cold, her knees up under her chin when she's playful. This is not the woman he married. "How did I _not_ see this?" he asks, almost under his breath.  
  
"You did," she says, just as softly, "and you married me anyway."  
  
"No," he says, thickly, "I was _done_ with that-"  
  
 _that part of my life_ , he doesn't say (but he was; no cases, no danger, no _Sherlock_. When he and Mary went to dinner, it wasn't a front for a stakeout; when he opened their fridge, he was never in danger of being surprised by anything remotely _human_.  
  
He loved Mary, loved that she was everything his life with Sherlock wasn't, loved her before skip codes and fires and almost-murders at their wedding, and the suggestion that he's got it all backwards, that he loved her _because_ she was dangerous and mysterious (like _Sherlock_ ) is too much to handle, too much, here and now).  
  
"John, you're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and -" Sherlock hesitates, just briefly, John's words from earlier hanging heavily between the three of them, "people," and John shakes his head in disbelief.  
  
"Not _now_ ," he grits out, and Sherlock nods, very slightly. "Did you love me?" he asks Mary.  
  
"Of course she did," Sherlock says, almost gently, before Mary can open her mouth. "Still does."  
  
"Sherlock," he says, warningly.  
  
"John-" he breaks off, grimacing, "Is it so hard for you to imagine it possible to hurt - and lie to - someone you love?" He pauses. "Sometimes - there isn't any other choice."  
  
"No," John disagrees, immediately. " _No_. You always have a _choice_."  
  
Sherlock exchanges a quick look with Mary, like John's being so painfully _simple_ , and it's not a look he's never seen before, and normally, it wouldn't bother him this much, but --  
  
"Oh, you're a pair," John says, settling back into his chair. Then, to Sherlock, "Of course _you'd_ see no problem with my wife _lying to me_ -"  
  
Sherlock holds up a hand. "Sorry," he says, unapologetically, like he's just clarifying, "Are you still - you said you'd forgiven me for that."  
  
"Yeah, well," John mutters, "Something about being lied to by one of the few people I should be able to trust seems to have brought it all back up again.  
  
There's a pause, a flicker of recognition in Sherlock's eyes. "Trust issues," he says, almost to himself (and he hated the phrase long before Mycroft read it in his therapists notes, in his face; he doesn't trust easily and with _good fucking reason_ ).  
  
"Yeah," John agrees, sarcastically. "This is all on _me_." And things that didn't seem important at the time; "No wonder you both thought I was overreacting," Sherlock squints a little, tries to place it, "The night you-" he gestures to Sherlock, then, to Mary, "The night I was going to propose."  
  
 _(the night you came back)_  
  
And something else from that night, something that's - niggling. "So," he says, cocking his head to the side and studying his wife, "who was _your_ confidante?"  
  
Sherlock stills, opposite him, like it's something that hadn't occurred to him, and Mary stares at both of them, defiantly, but it's Sherlock - of _course_ it's Sherlock - who speaks first.  
  
"John," he says, a little warningly, and John holds up his hands, palms up, in exaggerated surrender. Sherlock turns to Mary. "Let us help you."  
  
Mary isn't swayed. "Why?"  
  
"I'd bloody well like to know," John mutters.  
  
"I shot you," Mary says, flatly, to Sherlock, and Sherlock tips his head in agreement.  
  
"I remember," he says, mildly. "But I think we have - common interests." Mary's gaze flicks over to John, probably unintentionally, and Sherlock adds, "Charles Augustus Magnussen."  
  
"You were going to kill him," John doesn't ask.  
  
"People like him deserve to be killed," Mary says, and this isn't the woman who manages to ruin mash. This is someone - _something_ \- else.  
  
"Jesus," John breathes, staring at her, and there's a terrible, awful silence that's broken only by --  
  
"Tea, anyone?" Mrs. Hudson asks, from behind John, and John turns, a little incredulously. "You'd all gone a bit quiet," she admits, twisting a tea towel and John smiles at her, thin but genuine, and she reaches out to touch his shoulder, and he leans against her arm for a moment.  
  
"Anything you'd like to confess to?" he murmurs, "Seems to be the night for it."  
  
"You already know about my husband, dear."  
  
"Mmnn," Sherlock agrees, lacing his fingers together, "but did you know she was an exotic dancer?"  
  
"Sherlock!" she protests, flicking the tea towel at him, half-heartedly.  
  
"Mrs. _Hudson_!" John exclaims, and she shrugs.  
  
"Live and let live," she reminds him, and he glances over to half-smile at Sherlock, but Sherlock's grimacing, hand hovering above his right side.  
  
"Sherlock," he says, urgently, immediately alert, "Alright?"  
  
"John, I think I might have some," he inhales, sharply, "internal bleeding."  
  
" _Sherlock Holmes_ ," Mrs. Hudson says, disapprovingly, "If you hadn't been re-arranging furniture and _dashing off_ about London-"  
  
"Christ, Sherlock," John breathes, leaning over him, because it's _true_ , isn't it? If Sherlock had just _stayed_ in his bloody hospital bed, he wouldn't be haemorrhaging internally in the middle of the damn living room. "Call an ambulance," he orders, fingers wrapping around Sherlock's wrist to check his pulse.  
  
Mary's standing, too, and John glances up at her. _You did this_ , he doesn't say  
  
(doesn't have to; she looks away).  
  
"John," Sherlock says, hand twisting around in his grip to clutch at John's wrist. "John, you can trust Mary. Magnussen-" his breath catches, "Magnussen is all that matters."  
  
"Not now, Sherlock," he says, and just before he collapses, Sherlock squeezes his wrist, a quick _well done_ , and John squeezes back.  
  
  
  
(Sherlock's instructions, whispered, quickly, in the echoing hallways of Leinster Gardens, were clear --  
  
"You'll be angry. Don't say anything you can never take back. Nothing that will force her hand. Nothing that will make her run." He runs his fingers through John's hair, fluffing it up.  
  
"Oi," he protests, batting Sherlock's hand away.  
  
"But don't be _too_ forgiving," Sherlock warns, reaching around to flip John's collar up.  
  
"That - will not be a problem," John says, evenly, and something in his tone makes Sherlock glance down at him properly.  
  
"John," he says, seriously. "I'm sorry-"  
  
"I know," he interrupts, and his smile is tight. "Let's just do this, yeah?"  
  
"She's the key to Magnussen," Sherlock continues, gaze searching John's. "Magnussen wants Mycroft. He has no leverage on my brother. This is the only way to - get his attention. Keep him in the game."  
  
There's a long pause.  
  
"The only way," John finally repeats, in agreement).

 

  


End file.
